King's Test (22 page)

"Twenty
kilometers. He is in middle."

"Are any of
the mind-dead with him?"

"Thirty,
Sagan Lord."

The darkness was
not as dark as the Warlord's expression. The breed slid his spinal
column another few centimeters down into the chair, almost
disappearing within the rags.

"What has
he done since his arrival?"

"He make
contact with the Adonian."

"Damn!"
The Warlord swore softly. "Did Abdiel go to Snaga Ohme himself,
in person?"

"No, Sagan
Lord. He send one of the dead men."

"Do you
know what they discussed?"

"The man
does not live who can walk unobserved into the house of the Adonian,
Sagan Lord. My listening devices do not function there, either. The
Adonian is very clever in the art of jamming signals."

Sparafucile was
not making excuses, merely stating facts, and the Warlord, knowing
his creature's talents, accepted his reasoning without question.

"But we can
assume Abdiel is merely opening negotiations," Sagan said,
speaking low, as if to himself.

The breed,
uncertain if this remark was addressed to him or not, kept quiet.

The Warlord
returned to the business at hand. "Anything else on the
mind-seizer?"

"No, Sagan
Lord."

"Proceed
then to the lady."

"Twelve
hours after Abdiel arrive on Laskar, the lady arrive."

"Yes, I
received your report concerning
her."

Sparafucile
appeared to think he detected a note of rebuke. "You are not
mad, Sagan Lord? Perhaps you think I should have sent report on
Abdiel—"

"No!"
Sagan shook his head in emphasis. "Transmit nothing pertaining
to him! Bring all information directly to me, as per your original
orders."

The breed was
reassured. "The base commander, he make contact with the
Adonian."

"You were
able to hear their conversation?"

Sparafucile
grinned. "The ear I put in his office can hear the sound of the
dust blowing across the floor, Sagan Lord. I could tell you how fast
the lady's heart beats, eh?"

"I'm not
interested in her heartbeat . . . and neither are you," the
Warlord added pointedly, knowing his creature's one weakness.

Sparafucile
laughed—a short, croaking bark that ceased with a gurgle,
sounding much as if he'd choked himself. "I hear all the talk,
Sagan Lord. Haupt and Ohme do not speak long. The commandant tells
the Adonian that the lady is here, that she is sent by you. The
Adonian is pleased. The lady has appointment with Ohme tomorrow.
Noon, Laskar time."

"You can be
back by then?"

"You know
my skill. You know my craft." The black eyes above the mound of
rags were shrewd, attentive. "What are orders, Sagan Lord?"

"Follow the
woman to Ohme's estate. When she comes out—" Sagan paused,
broke off, then asked abruptly, "Is Abdiel aware of the Lady
Maigrey's presence on Laskar?"

Sparafucile gave
the question due consideration, shook his head with finality. "No,
Sagan Lord."

"But that
will change soon. He will sense her, much as I would. Much as I
do,"
he rephrased his sentence softly, beneath his breath. "And,
undoubtedly, knowing Ohme, he will inform each of the other's
presence, use the two against each other in order to drive up the
price. The news will come as a shock to my lady, I fear, but I trust
she will stand up beneath the blow." The Warlord was quiet,
considering his plans.

Sparafucile
waited in respectful silence.

Sagan drew a
breath, made up his mind. "When she comes out of Snaga Ohme's
house, my friend, you will follow her at a discreet distance. Keep
her in sight, but do not reveal yourself to her."

"A
question, Sagan Lord. The lady will succeed in her mission to the
Adonian?"

"Yes, she
will succeed. When she comes out of his house, she will have an
object—"

"What is
object?"

"A secret,
my friend. A secret you will be paid well to let remain a secret."

"Very good,
Sagan Lord. Then it is all very simple. Let me take secret from
lady."

"Could you
take it from me, Sparafucile," Sagan inquired gravely, "if
I didn't want you to have it?"

The breed
appeared awed, shook his head. "No, Sagan Lord."

"Then you
would not be able to take it from her."

Sparafucile's
eyes narrowed; he was dubious. The Warlord opened his right palm,
revealing the five marks barely visible in the dim light. He said
nothing, but the breed understood the meaning, uncrossed his legs in
acknowledgment.

"Keep watch
over the woman, Sparafucile. The moment she acquires the object, she
will be in extreme peril. Make certain that both she and the object
arrive safely back at the fort."

"I
understand, Sagan Lord. And then?"

"And then I
will deal with the lady. You will return and maintain your
observation of Abdiel."

"Yes, Sagan
Lord."

"Continue
bringing reports to me in person. I will be at Fort Laskar."

The rags moved,
indicating that the breed had given his acquiescence.

"Are you in
need of anything? Weapons? Money?"

Knowing this was
his dismissal, Sparafucile gathered himself together and rose, by
degrees, to a standing position. In answer to the Warlord's
questions, the breed thrust forth the strong hands and flexed them,
indicating that these were his best weapons. He then held one palm
out and up, admitting a need for money.

Sagan complied,
lifting a leather pouch he had waiting, and tossing it to the breed,
who caught it deftly. The half-breed did not glance inside. The chink
of platinum—the preferred medium of exchange on Laskar—had
been obvious to his sharp ears. The pouch and the hands disappeared
inside the rags. His body hunched and shrank together until he was
nothing more than a twisted beggar removing his unsavory person from
the Warlord's presence.

The panel slid
open at the lord's command. The Honor Guard presented themselves,
escorted the breed back to his ship.

"My lord,"
came the captain's voice over the commlink.

"Yes."

"I have
someone on line, waiting to speak to you."

Sagan frowned in
irritation. He needed time to think. "Who is it?"

"He said to
tell you the name was Captain Link, my lord." The officer spoke
with faint disgust. He had not been impressed with Captain Link.

Dread brushed
its claws across the Warlord's soul.

"Put him
through to me."

"Yes, my
lord."

"Sagan?
That you?"

"Yes,
Captain," the Warlord said.

"Uh, I got
some bad news, I'm afraid, your Warlordship."

"What is
it, Captain?"

"Just one
thing first. Do I still get the rest of my money? I was in this
ante-up game, see, and I had a run of bad luck—"

"You will
still receive your payment. Depending on your information, you
may
be allowed to live long enough to spend it."

A long pause.
Then, "Uh, yeah. Well. The fact is . . . er . . . the kid's
gone."

"Gone?
Where? To
Defiant
?" Sagan had been expecting Dion to
launch some wild scheme to rescue John Dixter.

"I don't
think so. You see, your lordship, I don't exactly know
where
they've gone. I think the kid caught on to me."

"Very good,
Dion," Sagan murmured. "I'm impressed."

"He got
this message—"

"Message?
From whom?"

"Near as I
could understand from something the kid said when he thought I was .
. . er . . . passed out, the message came from that woman named
Maigrave or something like that."

"And now
the boy is gone. Off-planet?"

"Plane's
nowhere to be found. Controller said the pilot requested off-world
clearance."

"Is anyone
with him?"

"Nola . . .
and Tusk, your lordship. Both of them are missing, too, and it makes
sense that they would have gone with the kid."

Of course. The
Guardian. It was logical. Maigrey had contacted the boy, warned him
to leave Vangelis, sent him into hiding. It was logical, but then why
didn't it seem right?

"You are a
fool, Captain Link. Fortunately for your continued good health, you
are a useful fool. If the boy returns or you hear anything from
either him or Mendaharin Tusca, inform me at once."

"Yes,
lord." Link sounded subdued.

"That will
be all. Oh, by the way, how did the message come? Subspace?"

"Subhuman
is more like it, your lordship. Some weird-looking character brought
it. I didn't get a close look at the guy. His face was hidden in
those desert-sheikh-type robes they wear on Vangelis but what I saw
of it sent me to the jump-juice bottle, if you know what I mean."

Dread dug its
nails in deeper. Sagan broke off the transmission, sat lost in
thought.

Something was
not right. Something was going wrong, very wrong. He longed to reach
out his hand, grab whatever it was, shake it, slap it, force it to
obey his will. He reached out his hand . . . only to feel the
darkness slide through his fingers.

Business is
business. Pleasure is pleasure.

George Alec
Effinger,
When Gravity Fails

"I repeat.
Your master has been most woefully misinformed." Snaga Ohme
reached out a jewel-bedecked hand, tilted a small mirror that stood
on his desk, and paused to study the effect of the sunlight upon his
fair skin. He kept his gaze on the mirror, preferring the sight of
his own handsome features to the empty eyes of the mind-dead, seated
across the desk from him. " 'T'isn't my fault, so don't go
ranting and raving about it."

Somewhat of an
exaggeration. The empty eyes had not so much as blinked, the level
voice of the mind-dead had merely expressed its master's considered
opinion that Snaga Ohme was lying.

The Adonian
carefully touched up several strands of black hair that curled around
a shell-like ear, pinched the lobe to make it pink, massaged his
hands to keep them white.

"Very well,
I'm lying." Ohme shrugged negligently. "The Warlord's
representative—a woman, I might add—is
not
coming
to see me at noon today. I am putting off your master simply to tease
him, to irritate him, to annoy him." Each phrase accompanied by
a graceful wave of an elegant hand. "If your master becomes too
highly annoyed, he may take his business elsewhere."

The empty eyes
closed a moment, as if listening to a voice within. Snaga Ohme took
advantage of the opportunity to exchange amused glances with a
handsome man standing in a corner of the Adonian's office, a man who
served Ohme in the capacity of confidential secretary, cook, valet,
bodyguard, rumor had it lover, and—since the man held numerous
degrees in nuclear physics and mathematics—scientific adviser.

The empty eyes
opened. Their disconcerting, slightly out-of-focus gaze approached
the general vicinity of the Adonian. "Who is this agent, then?"
the mind-dead asked. "A woman, you say? Again, you are lying.
Lord Sagan would never trust a mission of such a delicate nature to
anyone but himself."

"Then it's
the Warlord himself, coming in drag," Snaga Ohme cried, highly
elated. "Gad, Bosk, Sagan in drag! What a marvelous image! I am
much indebted to this walking cadaver here for having provided it!"
The Adonian, his amusement soon spent, turned his gaze back to the
man seated across from him. A slight touch of impatience tinged
Ohme's voice. He was easily bored and was beginning to find this
conversation—and his lifeless visitor—tiring. "All I
know about the agent is that, according to Brigadier General Haupt,
she is a she, not a he. Admittedly, Haupt is not the most intelligent
of humans, but he does, I assume, have the capacity to distinguish
the female of the species from the male."

The Adonian held
out his hands, studied his cuticles with a critical eye. "Though,
of course, Derek Sagan in taffeta petticoats and a feather boa might
be able to fool him completely. With enough lipstick."

Bosk stepped
forward, placed his well-muscled body behind the visitor's chair.
When Snaga Ohme began contemplating his manicure, it was a sign that
the interview was nearing an end.

"You will
stall this agent, then. Allow us to match the offer." The
mind-dead sitting in the chair did not move, did not shift his
unblinking, lifeless gaze.

"I can't
see how my business dealings could possibly be any concern of yours
or your master's." Snaga Ohme propped his elbow up on the arm of
his chair, holding his left hand in the air to keep the veins from
swelling in an unsightly manner, and sent a languid glance to Bosk.
The bodyguard placed a hand on the visitor's shoulder. The hand could
have wrapped twice around the mind-dead's slender neck.

The visitor rose
to his feet, leaned over the desk. "Do not forget who and what
my master is, Snaga Ohme." The voice was level, even.

The Adonian slid
his right hand beneath his desk. A beam of light flashed, almost
faster than the eye could follow. The chair in which the visitor had
been seated vanished in a sizzle, a pop, and a puff of smoke, leaving
behind the acrid odor of melted plastic.

"Never,"
Snaga Ohme replied with a charming smile.

His show was
rather wasted on the mind-dead, however, who was not in the least
impressed. The expressionless face remained blank; the eyes blinked,
but only as an involuntary reaction to the sudden flash of laser
light. The deadly beam had passed bare centimeters from the man's
arm, but he had not flinched. Turning, he walked away from the desk,
heading for the door. Bosk hastened to open it. Another handsome and
superbly built footman escorted the man to the front entrance of the
Adonian's palatial dwelling.